I was stopped at a light on a hill on the way to my parents house. The sky is blue today, the sun is bright, the wind is cold and noisey.

I watched as a one of those extra large playground balls rolled down the street toward me. It was weathered and pink and bumpy. I wondered if had been a bright red last spring. I wondered if it would roll into my car, and what the plan was if that happened. Would I need to get out of my car to move it? Would it pop? Could I just push it the mile to my folks’ house? It was too big to fit under the car . . .

I watched it as it skimmed my front bumper, and rolled down past the car behind me. Cars started turning down the road, blocking my view.

“I’ll never know what happens to that ball, or where it came from.” I thought as I continued to my parents’ house with my laundry.

Our washer is broken and the repair place says they can come next week. So until we get it fixed, we bring baskets and bags of laundry to my parents’ house. I don’t care how old you are, if you carry a basket or bag of laundry from your car to your parents basement, you’re basically 19. Even if one of those baskets is your 11 year old’s laundry.

An afternoon of laundry at my parents’ house felt like quiet respite. Maybe I shouldn’t get my washer fixed . . .

My dad made sure I got the settings on the washer correct, since last time I accidentally put the detergent in the spot for bleach.

My mom darned my torn sock. It’s a special sock, Mardi’s sock. I gave her donut socks last year, and after she died, I was given a pair back. These socks are holy to me, but I really don’t want them holey. (You can’t blame me for writing that. Seriously. It had to be said.)

Yea. My mom darned my sock, my dad made me tea, my laundry churned around in the basement. It was quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t get my washer fixed.

I packed up and drove home.

When I stopped at the light on the hill, I started looking out for that weathered playground ball. There is a creek and a park at the bottom of the hill, and I really hoped I’d see it there.

I mean, doesn’t a weathered playground ball deserve to retire on the water? I can imagine it floating around in the sun, playing with the ducks and enjoying the sounds of children at the playground.

But, I didn’t see it anywhere. Not in the street, not in the park, not in a lucky child’s hand.

“I’ll never know what happened to that ball, or where it came from.” I thought as I drove home, wondering about the metaphor of laundry, darning, quiet tea and a lonely lost weathered toy on a windy day.

“I’ll never know.”

Am I the kind of person who thinks it’s okay to keep a ziplock bag of chocolate chips on the counter in an unused pot?
No. No. No. I assure you, I am not.

I think it started with a bag of mini chocolate chips my daughter liked to add to her yogurt
with granola and fruit
Then the kids started throwing chocolate chips in their hot chocolate this winter,
which was cute.
I noticed the chips started staying out on the counter only recently,
and the ziplock bag in a pot thing?
That started just last week.

Am I the kind of person who had some of those chocolate chips, with a dollop of peanut butter on a spoon?
Yes. Yes… I did that just this afternoon.

Am I the kind of person who thinks those chocolate chips would look prettier
in a big mason jar?
I mean, if they are going to be on the counter . . .

If you can’t beat ’em,
join ’em.

March 8th

March 8th. 
sunny, 
spring is in the air 
for now. 
Kids are out on wheeled things 
"spring break" is two days off later this week
Kids and I really wish we were going somewhere. 
Anywhere 
really. 
Any. Where.

Before that, 
March 8th - 2020 
we drove to Georgia 
mountains and hikes and family time and laughter and fireplaces and wine.
Our last pre-pandemic normalcy. 
We knew something was happening - 
but not really. 
We clorox-wiped the vacation house, we didn't go to crowded places…
but it felt normal. 
happy. 
We even brought the dog! 
Our Georgia trip felt like family in a cabin, 
but not a cabin-fevered family.

Before that,
March 8th was Finnegan Foxy Feinberg's birthday. 
Always during spring break, 
He’s always at the "Pet Resort" for his birthday. 
Our spring breaks were never fancy, 
but they were breaks. 

Before that, 
March 8th marked the anniversary of my father-in-law's death. 
A day to remember him, 
gone now for over 20 years. 
A character 
we wish he had seen our wedding, 
We wish he had met his grandchildren. 
Every March 8th I will remember him and feel lucky that I got to know him.

Before that, 
March 8th was just a normal day.
I'm sure spring was in the air sometimes, 
other times there were blizzards. 
I'm sure life looked normal - headed on a vector I didn't notice
just living life.

Now I wonder. 
What will March 8th look like next year? 

March 8th 2022
March 8th 2023
March 8th 
March 8th
What will the March 8ths of the future have in store for us?